DadCentric

"You're gonna need a bigger boat."

One more thing to add to the ever expanding list of Shit You Really Don't Want To Talk To Your Four-Year-Old About: shark attacks. When your goal is to have your son grow up to be the next Joel Tudor, and your daughter to be the next Lisa Andersen, this is not a welcome development.

Not that I'm in the least bit concerned - even though David Martin was killed at the surf break that was my go-to spot when we lived in Solana Beach. Saw lots of dolphins in the three years that I frequented that break, nary a shark. Hell, I spent 7 years working for SeaWorld, spouting statistics and anecdotes about how galactically UNlikely you are to be killed by a shark here in sunny San Diego (as it happens, you have a greater chance of being killed by lightning, bees, falling airplane parts, and domesticated pigs than a great white). In fact, I surfed yesterday evening, two days after the attack. At sunset. Without a lifeguard around. Or any other surfers in the water. (I'll admit - it was a bit spooky. After I got out of the water, I saw a gray dorsal fin break the surface, right where I had been. A dolphin, of course, and, of course, had I seen that same fin in the water while I was out there bobbing around, I'm quite certain I would have fouled my wetsuit.)

Luckily, Lucas has no fear of the ocean, and luckier still, he remained blissfully ignorant of the tragedy. And I intended to keep it that way. And so it was that we were driving down the coast highway on Saturday afternoon, me gazing wistfully out at the ocean, lovely waves rolling in made even lovelier by slight offshore breezes - waves that were completely empty, unridden, due to the circling helicopters and lifeguard trucks that were on the lookout for the great white. "Look at how nice that looks," I said to Beth. "Stupid shark."

"What? What shark, daddy?"

Fuck.

Beth was thinking quickly. "Oh, daddy...is telling a joke. A joke from a movie that we saw. About a shark."

"Oh," said Lucas. "What movie?"

"Well, it's a movie called Jaws, and it's about a shark."

"Can I watch it?"

"Well," I said, "it's a grownup movie. When you're old enough, believe me, we'll watch it."

"Yeah", added Beth. "It's very scary, and it has lots of bad words."

"Oh," said Lucas. "Do they say 'stupid'?"

"Yep," we said.

"Oh," said Lucas. "And 'dammit'?"

"Yeah," we said, "but remember, you're not supposed to say that word..."

"And 'fuckers'?"

Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies....

Rockabye: The DadCentric Review

I was sitting in a bookstore in Hollywood talking to Neal Pollack and had just finished saying something stupid to a friend of his about her shoes when Rebecca Woolf walked in. We were introduced and Neal went on to tell me that Rebecca had just signed a book deal. She was stunning so I only hated her for a moment. She talked briefly about the book before being whisked away to give chase to her motherly duties.

Later, while I was reading whatever it was I was reading, Rebecca and her son Archer made a few laps around me and every time one of us would nod or smile to the other, sometimes both. Archer was oblivious to me. I doubt that Rebecca remembers any of that, but I do, because watching her and her son made me feel guilty that I hadn't brought mine with me. Of course an hour later I was sitting around a pitcher of margaritas with Jason Avant and Whiffleboy, my colleagues at DadCentric, and I was long over any remorse of paternal guilt.

Her book, Rockabye, is now out, and upon reading it I was immediately hit by two things, a) this isn't your typical parenting book, and b) I totally missed her slut phase. I won't lie. The latter hurt a little.

If you read Rebecca's blog(s) then you have an idea of what to expect from her story. She is tough as she is tender and above all she is honest. Her writing is welcoming, and she invites you to come in, have a drink, take your shoes off and be comfortable in your own skin, and hers as well.

It is a narrative of insight and understanding that allows the reader to relate and reflect.

For instance: "Who are we to tame our children before they even understand what it means to be wild? Who are we to limit their experience with our own closed minds? And don't we remember what it felt like to be kids? Because if I'm not mistaken, every single thing my mother told me not to do I did. Twice."

Exactly. Yet, I have found myself doing just that, trying to stay the inevitable when in truth I am only delaying it, perhaps magnifying it. Her words made me stop and take a breath. I do remember what it was like to be a kid, and still, it is easy to forget. Too easy.

There is inspiration there, and it continues throughout: "Martyrdom does not bring into the world children with a strong sense of self. A mother who sacrifices her livelihood for her children is risking not only her own loss of identity but also the well-being of her children. No child deserves to be resented. It is possible to do it all well."

And she does.

At least on paper. She will be the first to admit that she is flawed, and rather than hide her blemishes she has chosen to embrace them. They are, after all, what makes us who we are.

Hers is the real world, and it is full of rainbows.

Read more from Rebecca at Girl's Gone Child and Straight form the Bottle.  Buy Rockabye here or at a bookseller near you.

Earth Day: Save the Planet, Save Yourself

Today is Earth Day.  Every day is Earth Day.  See how that works.  The bottom line is that we've pushed this poor planet about as far as it can go without serious repercussions.  More serious repercussions.

You don't have to be a hippie smelling of patchouli and  mushrooms to celebrate your planet.  Our planet.  Sure, showers are optional, but let's not be over dramatic. 

We've only got one planet and if we don't start living differently we're going to lose it.  I'm talking to you, big oil, but not just you.  We can all make a difference.  Don't let Earth become the next Pluto.

[thanks for the video idea Jason!]

When Spelling Goes Awry

Last night after dinner we gave the girls some Alphabet cookies and milk for dessert.  They're organic and taste like a cinnamon flavored shoe box, so, they're relatively healthy as far as desserts go.  Anyway, typically our older daughter plays around with the cookies to see what words or phrases she can spell.  Our youngest blindly follows suit and inexplicably always announces that she spelled "Dre" - our dog's name.  Being a non-reader at this point, she wouldn't know Dre from diphtheria, but, dammit...that's what she thinks she spells every time. 

Well, by chance our 4 year-old set her "letters" up on the table last night and I see the word "Maui" in plain sight.  "Holy shit, honey, she 'spelled' Maui!" I said to my wife.  We laugh and our older daughter gets all excited about the fact that her younger sister spelled her first word, so to speak.  "Look Lu!  You spelled Maui!  YOU spelled MAUI!"  she says.  "No I didn't!  I spelled Dre," she replies. "No you didn't.  You spelled Maui, see?  M-a-u-i, Maui!"  "I spelled Dre!!!  [Slowly] Aaaaaaaaaa-Ooooooooo-7-A. Dre!!!!"

An argument ensues.  They continue to go back and forth to the point they're yelling at each other enough to merit parental intervention.  We calm the situation down and continue on with our evening.  However, our older daughter managed to sneak in a few more jabs at her little sister about the whole incident - her lack of spelling, her inability to read, etc.  It was innocent for the most part and, as big sister, well within the rules of engagement, lest she be pwned by a little kid.  Fair enough.

However, just before bedtime our older daughter slips my wife a sweet little post-it note  with the following inscribed: Mom, you are the beast!

Touche, Karma.

I'd like a Sid and Marty Krofft theme

"When I was a kid...."  Isn't that the way any anecdote starts when some old fogey wants to talk about how things were different (read: better, harder, simpler, boring-er) when he/she was a kid?  I'm not going to talk about walking to school in snowstorms, or gathering around the wireless to listen to The Shadow, or awaiting the arrival of the iceman (no, not Val Kilmer) in his horse-drawn wagon.  No, mine is much more mundane - to us as adults, that is - but right up there with Christmas in the eyes of a child.  Birthday parties.

Now, when I was a kid (you just knew it was coming, right?  No?  Are you even paying attention?)...anyway, when I was a kid, birthdays were right up there with Christmas - maybe even a little bit higher because it was all about you.  Hell, even if it wasn't yours, they were always big events.  You could end up at several birthday parties throughout the year and gorge yourself on ice cream, cake and other sweets while playing silly games like pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, blindman's bluff or spin the bottle (oh, wait a second, maybe that was later).  Parties were always in someone's basement or kitchen or at a local bowling alley or pizza joint and the theme was simple - "Hey, it's your birthday.  Enjoy your cake and presents."  No Princesses.  No Sponge Bob.  No Handy Manny.  No frills.  Just white paper plates and Styrofoam® cups and maybe some conical hats emblazoned with "Happy Birthday."

Now it's all about theme parties.  Coordinated plates and cups, streamers and balloons, tablecloths and napkins.  There have to be special order cakes and a special guest is a must - usually an out-of-work actor wearing some atrocious costume - or else your party is just some pedestrian exercise in frivolity, rather than the tres chic, tutti di tutti extravaganza every five-year-old yearns for.  But, wait, there's an even more disturbing trend: requests for no presents.  NO PRESENTS!  WTF?  How else are you supposed to determine who is the better friend?  "Well, Aidan did find this very cool Buzz Lightyear with the laser that's really a lightbulb, but Stevie found this really cool Death Star with working superlaser.  Aidan, who?"

This is just my over-ranting way of getting to a question for all you fine folk out there.  If you get an invitation to a birthday party and it does say, "No gifts please," do you follow the invitation's request or do you ignore it entirely?  And, as a follow-up, do you feel guilty when you show up with nothing and everyone else has ignore the request?  Is a stack of TV dinners an appropriate gift?  (that's for you Sarah)

Star Wars According to a Three-Year-Old

There are life lessons here:

Source: fistofblog

The Perfect Answer?

It's inevitable if you're a parent.  It's kind of a rite of passage, so to speak.  One of these days, whether you expect it or not, you're kid is going to put their foot in your mouth.

We're sitting at CPK on one of our weekly dinner excursions.  My 4 year old daughter is sitting across from me facing the rest of the restaurant.  It's close quarters in this particular section as diners sit practically elbow-to-elbow.  The host places menus on the empty table to my right as he begins to seat a party of two.  I see my daughter's eyes lock on to whomever is about to sit down next to me and the corner of my eye fills with the shadow of the approaching patron.  I shift my field of vision slightly to the right, identifying my newly-seated neighbor who has captured my daughter's attention.  And then the next 3 seconds played out in slow motion...

I wave of terror flows through me as my daughter's finger begins to point at the gentleman to my right.  I know what's about to happen and I have about .5 seconds to think of a way to counter strike.  Unfortunately, I'm two glasses of chardonnay in and I possess the reaction time of a salted slug.  It's too late.  The Death Star is clear to fire.  Her finger fully extended and eyes looking directly in to his face she asks, "Hey, why that guy have a big tummy?"

Admittedly, I was shell shocked even though I saw it coming.  I was useless to respond.  My wife, however, was on the ball...sort of.  She immediately responds with "Why don't you introduce yourself, Lu?"  OK, I was thinking a diversion or something may have been the better choice than direct engagement, but, again, at least she responded - which is infinitely better than the drooling look of duuuuuuh I was offering up at that moment.  She didn't seem to want talk to the guy.  She was reloading.

I came to, gathered my senses and managed to interrupt and divert her several times as she was intent on asking that same question until she got an answer.  Attacking her flanks gave my wife enough time to scramble for an offensive move.  "Daddy, why don't you go take Lu to wash her hands."  Perfect!  Remove her from the scene and figure out what to do next.  I'm not taking her to the bathroom, that was just a red herring so that I could remove her somewhat naturally without looking too obvious. Maybe the big guy - and, yes, he was very obese - missed the whole exchange and, to him, it was business as usual for a family with small kids.  Right.  Who am I trying to fool here?

We walk towards the front of the restaurant.  I now had to think of how to answer her well enough to squash her curiosity.  I'm not good on my toes in uncomfortable situations.  The best I could muster was to ask her not to ask again so that we could just eat our dinner and go home for dessert (a diversion!).  It was a sucky response, I know.  But, it was the best I could do. Of course, it didn't do shit for the situation because she asked again as soon as we sat back down.  It wasn't until after several minutes of intensive distraction that she finally forgot about the guy and moved on.

However, she was owed an answer.  I explained to her on the way home that the guy's big tummy was what makes him special.  Just like some people have blue eyes, brown skin, or even a "beauty mark" like she has on her waist.  She seemed to get it at that point.  Hopefully. 

My wife and I both agreed that, for some reason, this was a more uncomfortable situation than we would expect from a similar encounter with someone with a disability, deformity, impediment, etc.  In those situations, direct engagement with the person seems more appropriate.  I bet most folks with those types of disabilities are prepared to answer a direct question.  But, fat?  Could we expect him to have a canned answer?  We couldn't wrap our minds around the perfect response for her.

How would you guys handle it?

This End Up isn't high-end?

I'm not a New York Times reader.  I never have been and I'm fairly certain I never will be.  In all honesty, I've just always found it pretentious and I don't think I fall into their particular demo.  They're wine, cheese and foie gras.  I'm beer, pretzels and three-layer dip.  Oh sure, I like to come off now and then like I'm a bit more cultured and refined, but I'm a keg parties in the woods, sit in the bleachers type of guy.

I know, I know.  You're saying to yourself, "Warren, we don't give a shit why you don't like The Times."  And, you're right, you shouldn't.  I only tell you as a preface to this February 14th article and why I found myself shaking my head muttering, "I just don't get it" and "Maybe they don't get it."

Before I got married, my decor consisted of a used Scandinavian Designs bed and dresser, assorted crates, a TV stand, an entertainment center, a beat-up La-Z-Boy covered in cat hair (RIP Moe) and assorted bric-a-brac - typical for a guy just out of college living on his own.  After getting married, Mrs. Big Dubya and I set out to furnish our home with nice but comfortable stuff - neither wanted a room or rooms where you were afraid to enter or sit down (read: my parents' house).  I think we've succeeded and admirably so.  It's all very nice, but we also know we have two small children (a third on the way) who aren't using coasters, eat with their fingers and like to use bottles as if they were bingo daubers.  Three words: We. Have. Kids.  Have I quit?  No.  Am I a realist?  I think so.  That's why I found the article so dumbfounding.  Am I the only one who knows that kids are not neatniks?  They don't just walk they barrel headlong into things.  They smear, spill, smudge and slobber on everything.  God bless 'em.

What bothers (troubles?) me about this article at times is the "Extra!  Extra!" earth-shattering quotes and revelations on behalf of some of the interview subjects:   “Going from being a couple to becoming a parent, your whole world changes..."  “Once you become a parent, your home is not your own..."  Hold on a sec.  You mean it's not all about me anymore?  Well, slap my ass and call me Charlie.  But, from reading this, you'd think these parents never got that memo - the underlying tone is, "I have and want nice things, therefore my children will conform and show these items the proper respect and care."  Newsflash: um...no they won't and no they won't.  Let me just say, here and now, I'm not faulting these people for wanting nice things; for wanting nice living spaces; for wanting to be adults.  Hell, I would love to be able to do that.  I've had my eye on a piece or two at Pier One just like everyone else.  But I also know that a wall, even if it is covered in designer paint, is still a very appealing and enticing canvas.  And, no matter how cautious or how quick you are (or think you are) that child is going to vomit - whether he's sitting on a $399 EKTORP sofa in Belgian White or a $17,000 sectional in brown leather and emerald chenille.  It's better to resign yourself to this fact now.  Just ask my sectional after the Sharpie pen incident of 2006.

If you have children and manage to maintain a showroom-quality apartment or home, lucky you and may that luck continue.  And, if you don't mind me asking, how much did you pay for Vicki?

Sidenote: If you read the article, you may have a similar question(s): How exactly does one go about becoming a professional babyproofer?  And 300 holes?  Are you installing some sort of bank vault?

Pyrrhic

I remember my first fight. 7th grade - there was a kid that lived down the block, one Brian Neville, who one day decided that he was going to pick on my little sister. He started calling her names. I told him to knock it off. He gave me a shove. "Make me." Although I had successfully managed to avoid fighting, I actually thought about it a lot. This was junior high in the Wild Midwest; lots of hormone-crazed assholes who I'm sure eventually grew up to become serial killers or prison guards. I decided that if my usual approach to avoiding a fight - charm 'em with kindness and wit, defuse things before they got out of hand - did not work and I had to fight someone...well, I wouldn't start it, but by God I would finish it.

"Make me." He repeated it. My sister was in third grade. He was calling her names. A real tough guy. I obliged.

When Brian tried for that second shove, I grabbed his arm, punched him in the stomach, and when he keeled over I grabbed a handful of his hair and dragged him screaming down the length of the driveway, pausing once or twice to kick him in the side. I think my sister might have been crying. I know Brian was. "You fight like a girl", he sobbed. I didn't say anything to him, just looked at him - through him - as he got on his bike and pedaled his chickenshit self home.  I'd given a bully a beating that he surely deserved, but all I remember is feeling hollow, even vaguely sick. My first fight would be my last.

I got a call today while on my lunch break. It was Beth. "Lucas got into a fight at school." "Oh, no", I said. "What happened?"

"Well, he didn't start it. Two of the bigger boys in the pre-K class started pushing and hitting him."

I saw red. Grabbed the steering wheel and squeezed it until my knuckles turned white. "Fuck. Who was it." Not a question. For a split second I thought about those two little shits and what I'd...

"Lucas won't tell me. But one of them was sent home - he's apparently done this before - and the teacher was watching and she stopped it before anyone got hurt. And I guess Lucas stuck up for himself - he hit one of them back."

"Good." I was surprised at the vehemence. "Too bad he's not in karate. A nice flying spin kick to the  teeth would have taught that kid a lesson. I'll talk to Lucas about it when I get home."

When I walked into the house, he was sitting in his little chair, watching The Wonder Pets and eating crackers. His first fight, I thought. "Hi Daddy", he said. I made dinner, let him talk to my parents on the phone, then got him into his bath. At some point during all that, we talked as best we could about what had happened. I told him that he wasn't in trouble, and that it's ok to protect yourself if someone starts hitting you, and that you should run and tell the teacher if that happens again, and that you should never start fighting with someone. He seemed to take it all in stride - kids are resilient, or so we tell ourselves. But he seemed tired, in a way that I hadn't seen from him, and I wondered if - perhaps hoped that - he felt like I did after my first and only fight.

It's cast-iron lined

No one has ever asked me so I'm not sure my opinion...my seasoned take...is of any value.  Fathers-to-be have never actively solicited my advice.  I do not dwell in a cave like some 21st century hermit awaiting seekers of wisdom, ready to provide them with the secrets of what to expect when their child finally arrives.  Then again, I never sought the advice of other veterans either.  I had it in my head that at 38 I had seen a great deal - more than some, less than others - but a great deal nonetheless.  I was wizened, savvy.  People do offer advice, of course.  We hear it all the time solicited or not.  But, fathers, I think there is something we can share with our brethren that, as some cruel part of the initiation, we keep to ourselves.  Some bon mot that tips them off while not going into a load of detail; something that implies a "You'll see" tone.

Something like, "I hope you have a strong stomach."

But more subtle.

Maybe, "Vomit easy?"

I'm not even talking about the poop.  The poop is easy, although that meconium does come as bit of a surprise early on - enough so that you want to call Fox Mulder.  Spitting up is amateur stuff.  If you can't take that you're in for a looooong haul.  No, it's toddler vomit.  Specifically the vomit of a milk drinker.  I have done some hard partying in my life - spring breaks, Mardi Gras, Oktoberfest, frats, Little Dub's first birthday party (I kid - it was his second) - and have seen up close and personal the effects of such drinking.  But nothing...nothing...prepared me for what the littlest Dubyas do.

I found myself thinking about this last night as I was up to my elbows in sheets and blankets covered in curdled milk, bile and remnants of a macaroni and cheese dinner, diligently rinsing them out before dropping them in the wash while Mrs. Big Dubya was upstairs hosing down Little Dubyette in the tub.

"No one told me about this part.  It's a good thing I have a strong stomach."